


Sticks & Stones

by Melawen_C



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Healing, Hell, Implied Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melawen_C/pseuds/Melawen_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean didn’t count days in Hell. He knew it was useless – he’d be there for eternity.</i>
</p><p>We know Castiel saved Dean, but what if there was more to it than that? Some violence and a good deal of angst (which is to be expected, with these two...)</p><p>(Originally posted on LJ -- <a href="http://melawen-c.livejournal.com/35062.html#cutid1">here</a>.)</p><div class="center">
  <p>_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks & Stones

Dean didn’t count days in Hell. He knew it was useless – he’d be there forever.

Still, he felt time pass, and he knew it was a long, long time before he stepped off the rack.

“Thirty years,” Alistair sneered as he handed Dean his knife. “Ready to have some fun now?”

 _Thirty?_ Dean would have sworn it was hundreds. He felt sick, but he knew that was useless now, too. This was eternity; he might as well get used to it. He gripped the bloody knife tight in his hand and plunged it into the nearest soul until he didn’t feel sick anymore.

After that, he didn’t feel time either.

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  


Dean turned from his victim, intrigued by the offer.

“A present?” he repeated, black eyes narrowing in interest.

Alistair smirked. “I think you’ll like it.”

Chained to a rack in a secluded corner was a creature Dean had never seen before. It wasn’t human, that he knew. It was unrecognizable (but then, so was everything once Dean had finished with it) and much brighter than anything he’d ever seen in Hell.

Dean’s eyes roved hungrily over the creature, already searching out the best places to inflict damage.

“Have some fun,” Alistair purred, and then he was gone.

They stared at each other, neither blinking or breaking their gaze. Dean was pleased that his newest victim didn’t look frightened. That always made it better for him.

“Do you know why I’m here?” the creature asked, and Dean decided that, whatever it was, it sounded male.

Dean gave him a bemused smile. “Let’s skip the small talk, okay? Everyone’s got their sad story of how they got here. I don’t care.”

With practiced certainty, Dean slashed his knife across the creature’s chest and waited for that first satisfying scream. Nothing happened. The blade seemed to pass right through, not even marking the strange body. The creature was completely unharmed. Stunned, Dean tried again and again. Still nothing. . . no reaction.

“What are you?” Dean growled, pressing the sharp edge of the knife to its throat.

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

Dean flinched, but recovered quickly. “I don’t believe you,” he sneered, even as he watched the blade pass right through him again. The creature said nothing.

Finally, Dean put the knife away and began to explore the unfamiliar body with his hands, determined to learn how to destroy it. The skin burned him, but he touched anyway, his hands blistering as he searched in vain for a way to harm him. As his hands slid down its chest, it took Dean a moment to realize what was missing – there was no heartbeat.

He looked up in surprise to find the creature already staring back at him. His scrutinizing gaze was somehow more invasive than any method of torture Dean knew. That unsettled him, but he didn’t look away.

“Your eyes used to be green,” the creature noted, almost sadly. 

“What are you?” Dean asked again, more curious than angry this time.

“You already know, Dean. I’m an angel.”

“There’s no such thing,” he hissed, quickly becoming frustrated with this exchange. “Angels aren’t real. Neither is god.”

“God exists,” was the emphatic response.

Dean leaned in conspiratorially, “Just between you and me,” he paused to grin, “‘cause I doubt you could find anyone else here who’d believe it – I used to pray. I used to pray for a lot of things until I realized there was no one listening. The things I’ve seen. . . the things I’ve _done_. . . No, there is no god, I can promise you that. At least, not any god I want to know.”

This time, it was the creature that flinched, and some of the light around him dimmed as Dean spoke. Upon seeing this, Dean’s eyes widened happily.

“Well, I guess it’s not sticks and stones that hurt you,” he smirked.

So, Dean learned how to torture an angel. He denounced every good thing he still remembered. With perverted pleasure, he described every horror he’d ever seen, all that had been done to him, and how much he had to practice to find _just the right way_ to poke and prod his victims. 

Dean spoke until the creature was pale and shivering, and soon found that, when he was in that state, he could slice into the body. The cuts never remained long, healing over nearly before Dean had finished, but at least it was something corporeal, and that satisfied him.

It wasn’t until one day, when Dean could think of nothing else to say, that he bothered to ask the creature’s name.

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  


For as hard as Dean worked to break him, he couldn’t. Castiel never screamed, never pleaded with Dean to stop, to let him go, or even to believe him; he just insisted, with quiet assurance, that he was an angel, sent here to save him. Dean tried not to listen, but somewhere along the line, the words began to sound strangely tempting.

“Leave this place, Dean. Come with me. You don’t belong here.”

Dean screamed and cursed at Castiel, at God, at everything until he was hoarse. His voice gone, he reverted to what he knew best and he pounded his fists against the angel again and again. Although it did nothing to harm Castiel or to lessen his anger, Dean didn’t stop until his hands were burnt raw and bleeding.

There was no blame or disappointment in Castiel’s eyes as he looked back at Dean, and that made Dean want to hurt him even more. All his strength gone, Dean looked down at himself in disgust but, where there should have been blood and grime, he found that his hands – his whole body – had been healed. He hardly recognized himself, he looked so. . . _human_. The immediate shock turned into a painful knot in his stomach as he realized what the angel had just done to him. _For_ him. 

For the second time since he'd stepped off the rack, Dean felt sick. He turned and ran, never once looking back at Castiel.

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  


When at last Dean returned, his body was bruised and bloody again, but his eyes were green. He said nothing as he approached, but began to work at the chains binding the angel’s hands.

“You’ve returned,” Castiel noted. A long-forgotten feeling tugged inside Dean at the angel’s tone. _Hope_ , he thought.

“You know, I crawled and climbed all through this damn place and I could still hear your voice in my head. Figure if I can’t avoid you, I might as well go with you.” He broke off and swore in frustration. “I can’t undo these.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Castiel flexed his wrists and the restraints snapped in two and fell at their feet. Dean’s eyes widened.

“This whole time. . . you could have freed yourself?”

“I was waiting for you,” Castiel said unapologetically.

Dean shook his head in amazement. “You’re crazy,” he muttered softly, “I just hope that works in our favor. Castiel, get us out of here.”

The angel shone so brightly that Dean had to shield his eyes. He heard screams below him and the steady beat of wings above, but all he felt was the burning hand that clutched his shoulder.

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  


Dean lay silent and motionless as Castiel put him back together, but his eyes were a whirling mix of gratitude, shame, and uncertainty. The angel concentrated on healing his body. . . healing the soul that so desperately called to him would have to be done later.

His fingers smoothed over Dean’s chest, above where his heart now thudded soundly. Dean winced as the angel repaired his tattoo – pain was new again, now that his nerves were healed.

Castiel thought as he worked. He couldn’t erase all Dean’s memories of Hell, but he could remove the ones involving him. . . He decided it would be best to help him forget as much as possible – the human had enough to deal with already. It was decided: Dean would not remember him when he returned. Castiel explained this as he reached to heal the last scar on his nearly flawless body.

Dean grabbed the angel’s hand before it reached his shoulder. “Then leave it,” he said, voice rough. 

Castiel didn’t know why he obeyed the request, or why, when he told Dean that he would return to him soon, he leaned down to whisper the promise in his ear. He lingered, listening to the blood pumping through the human’s veins. For a moment, the heartbeat sounded uneven, and Castiel wondered if he’d made a mistake, but then Dean took a deep breath and it steadied again.

“Alright,” Dean said brusquely, “let’s do this.”

Castiel nodded. Gently, he touched his palm to Dean’s forehead and sent him back. Then, he closed his eyes and waited.


End file.
